Powerless (25 page)

 

D
ue to the divergence of time zones, the President and all of his advisors are arranged around the large conference table in the Sit Room deep into the night. Admiral Hickerson and Defense Secretary Martin Wilson are shuttling between the Pentagon and the White House via helicopter. When at the Pentagon both are in nearly constant contact with the President and other advisors through the use of videoconferencing. The Sit Room has a direct line to the offices in the Pentagon.

“Admiral, what is the Iranian response?” President Harris says to the picture projected on the front screen.

“Sir, we aren't able to accurately determine their response. According to reports from the field we decimated their command structure, knocked out a majority of their air defense systems, and obliterated their feeble air force. Their troops are no longer pressing forward, but they also are not retreating.”

“Any battlefield intelligence suggesting what they might do?”

“We've intercepted some of their radio chatter with the help of AWACS aircraft on station, but nothing which gives us an insight into their thinking.”

“What's the next phase, Admiral?”

“Israel is about to launch another air sortie, and we will follow close behind with our own aircraft. We're also continually pounding them with both ship- and sub-launched Tomahawk cruise missiles. Israel is also massing its troops along their eastern border, but they, like we, are hoping to avoid any type of ground war.”

“How are we on supplies?” President Harris asks.

“So far, so good, sir. We have transferred a number of missiles to Strike Group One from the Israeli's stockpile of weapons. The rest of the fleet is well supplied, at least for another twenty-four hours, sir.”

The President leans forward in his chair. “Is this going to be over in twenty-four hours?”

“Unknown, sir, but I hope so. I wish we had some intel out of Tehran that would provide an insight into their thinking.”

“We're working on it, Admiral. Director Green will be in touch to update the situation shortly. Keep me posted, Admiral.”

“I will, sir,” Admiral Hickerson says before the screen at the front of the room transitions to black.

The President turns his attention to CIA Director Isaac Green. “Isaac, we need intel and we need it yesterday. Do we have any assets in Iran?”

“No, but the Israelis do. Unfortunately, the only source of contact is via satellite phone. Maybe”—the CIA director pauses for a moment, racking his brain—“we could assemble a joint team of agents to send into Iran through Afghanistan. There are a few CIA agents still in country. Let me talk to the Israeli ambassador, sir. We'll come up with something, hopefully within the next few hours.”

“Good, Isaac. Allison, any luck contacting Iranian leadership?”

The secretary of state shakes her head as she replies, “Nothing, sir. Not a hello, thank-you, or kiss my ass, sir.” Her reply elicits a few chuckles from the exhausted group around the table.

An ashen-faced national security aide rushes into the room, stops at the President's elbow, and leans in to whisper something in his ear. President Harris holds up his hand to stop him. “Tell everyone here—we're all in this together.”

The aide, who looks like he's only a couple of years removed from graduate school, clears his throat before speaking. “Mr. President, one of the AWACS planes reported a massive launch of some type of missile on the outskirts of Tehran.”

Gasps from those around the table.

“Heading?” the President barks.

“Unknown, sir.”

He turns his anger upon his advisors. “All of you assured me Iran was incapable of launching a nuclear warhead. What the hell just blasted off? I want to know, and I want to know right goddamn now.”

Advisors grab for phones as the President orders a reconnection with Admiral Hickerson and SECDEF Martin.

“Yes, Mr. President?” Admiral Hickerson says when the camera in front of him kicks on.

“Admiral, a large missile or some large something was launched from the outskirts of Tehran.”

Admiral Hickerson's face transitions from astonishment to concern in the blink of an eye. “I'm on it, Mr. President.”

“Wait!” President Harris shouts. “We have anything in our arsenal that can shoot the damn thing down?”

“Yes, we do, sir, but it comes down to a matter of trajectory. We need time for our systems to acquire the target, time we may not have.” Admiral Hickerson pushes out of his chair and disappears from the frame.

“Goddammit, I want answers, people.”

Chief of Staff Scott Alexander, who had taken a seat at the back of the room, carries his chair to the table and sits. He leans sideways and whispers in the President's ear. “Take a deep breath, Paul. We'll figure it out.”

President Harris takes a long look at Alexander, then nods.

“Mr. President, we don't know exactly what launched. It may not be a nuclear warhead,” one of the military aides says.

“Well, it's sure as hell wasn't a giant pop-bottle rocket,” the President snaps. “I need concrete answers, son. Do we have any way to track the whatever-the-hell-it-is?”

“Only what we can pick up through ship radar on site or possibly from the AWACS aircraft. But their radars are configured more for a look-down scenario, not for tracing atmospheric flight,” the director of the CIA answers.

President Harris throws his hands up in the air. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Alexander reaches out to put a hand on the arm of the President.

The CIA director says, “We need more info, sir.”

“There isn't any more info, Isaac. What's the flight time to Israel?”

One of the aides at the back of the room clears his throat and says, “Minutes, sir—at best.”

 

Z
eke waters the horses in a creek bordered by multimillion-dollar homes that look out over the rolling fairways of the Dallas Country Club two blocks away. He can't actually see the fairways or the houses, because of the dark, but he has seen them before. Upon his return, he parks all three horses in the backyard. He strips the saddle and blanket from Murphy's back, his ass protesting too much about another round in the saddle. He'll walk on his search for Carl. He pulls the Kimber rifle from its scabbard and lugs it, along with the saddlebag of ammunition, into the house.

The first item of business is to replace the two missing bullets from the magazine out of the Glock. Task completed, he stuffs the reloaded mag, along with extra rifle ammunition, into his jacket pocket. He glances up to see Ruth watching him work with the weapons. It's their only real bone of contention. Ruth would prefer a world without deadly weapons. Zeke ignores her look of annoyance. “Which way did he go?”

She steps closer so the conversation can't be overheard by the children in the next room. “He was going to try and get in the high school, thinking the vending machines would have some water.”

“The school right around the corner?”

“Yes. Highland Park High School.”

“Was he going to try anywhere else?”

“I don't know, Zeke. He mentioned something about stores all along Lovers Lane, but nothing specifically.” She glances back over her shoulder at the children sitting around the table. “What do you think happened?”

“I don't know, Ruth, but I'm going to find him.” He triple-checks one jacket pocket for the extra ammunition, then the other to make sure the small flashlight he brought is still there. At the last minute he decides to leave the rifle behind. If there's gunplay it will be in close quarters.

“Be careful, Zeke.”

“I will. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

His sister follows him to the front door.

“What if he's injured? He took the gun he bought off you.”

Zeke doesn't know if that was an accusation. “I'll find him, sis.” He slips out into the now colder, and if possible, darker night, the Glock riding comfortably on his hip.

He makes his way down the block and hangs a left, crossing over Lovers Lane for the second time in the last fifteen minutes. On the other side he pauses for a few moments, listening to the silence. Nothing. No cars rumbling along the road, no humans out in the dark—dead quiet. He works his way toward the tall, dark structures silhouetted against the starry sky. The high school is large, and he sneaks between two of the buildings and comes face-to-face with what appears to be a baseball field. He scours the area for movement before continuing on.

The next building he approaches is big, and being close to the athletic fields, he assumes this must be the gym. He creeps up to the doors and discovers all the security glass punched out. He snakes his hand through the broken window and pushes on the bar that opens the door.

Slowly, he pulls the door open and steps inside. He halts for a moment to listen again. Silence. He moves farther into the building, enveloped in total darkness. He fishes the flashlight from his pocket and covers the lens with his hand before turning it on. He was right. It is the gym. The wide counter of the concession stand is covered by some type of roll-down metal door. He flashes the light to the side and spots the entryway to the concession area kicked open. He advances for a closer look, his hand hovering just above the pistol's handle. He takes a quick peek around the doorjamb and pans the flashlight around the interior. Empty.

He flicks the beam down the hall to get his bearings before switching it off. The doors to the gym's interior are about ten steps away. He clicks off the light and moves forward. Not having heard even a wisp of noise, he's fairly certain no one is hiding inside but he needs to clear the room before moving on.

He steps inside the door, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. He shoves aside his caution and flicks on the flashlight. “Hell, Carl could be bleeding out somewhere while I'm dicking around in here,” he mutters. Zeke increases his pace and clears the two locker rooms. He shines the flashlight around the bleachers before exiting the gym. He kills the flashlight before stepping outside.

He eases along the exterior of the gym and comes to a long, rectangular, open area, the ghostly imprint of a goalpost silhouetted against the night sky. He glances around the field but sees nothing and hears even less.

The next building has glass starting about midway up the wall and he can tell at first glance it's a classroom. He walks to the back of the building, searching for a door. He finds it completely off its hinges, lying haphazardly across the lower portion of the doorway. He stretches one long leg over to clear the hazard, then the other. He pauses to listen. Silence. His head on a swivel, Zeke creeps down the long hallway.

 

T
he same NSA aide who had delivered the news of the missile launch rushes into the room and takes the same position next to the President. He starts to lean in but stops when remembering the earlier rebuff. He stands stiffly. “Mr. President, the missile exploded while still in Iranian airspace.”

Audible sighs drift across the room.

“Was it a nuke?” President Harris asks.

“Unknown at this time, sir. From the size of the blast, if it was a nuclear device it did not detonate, sir.”

The President slumps in his chair. “Thank you.”

The aide takes his cue and disappears into the background.

“Thoughts, people?” the President says.

Everyone begins talking at once and Chief of Staff Alexander waves his hand to silence the excited voices.

CIA Director Isaac Green is the first to speak. “Does it matter, Mr. President, whether that was a nuke or not?”

“Go on, Isaac.”

All eyes in the room are now focused on Isaac Green. “Well, sir, they have launched what appeared to be a ballistic missile with hostile intent. What I mean to say, sir, is that they at least have the capability to launch. And although this launch was a failure, their capability to launch will be used again.”

“What exactly are you suggesting?” Secretary of State Allison Moore says.

“What I'm suggesting, Allison, is to remove the head of the beast. Target the supreme leader and the president of Iran.”

“Are you nuts, Isaac? Did you not listen to my earlier comments about igniting a worldwide Muslim uprising?”

Alexander leans forward and props his elbows on the table. “Are they not already causing havoc all over the Middle East and Northern Africa? How much more damage can they do? Hell, right now might be the best time ever to strike.”

SECSTATE tosses her pen on the table and sits back in her chair. “You're both off your rocker.”

“I think they have a valid point, Allison,” the President says. “The Israelis are highly motivated to put an end to the constant threat that Iran presents for them.”

“But, sir, what if the next group of leaders is even worse?” She grabs up the discarded pen. “Isn't it better to know your enemies well enough to judge their thinking?”

“You may be right, Allison. But this opportunity may not present itself again.” The President turns to Director Green. “Isaac, get with the Israelis and develop a plan, then we'll decide the issue. Right now we need to be focused on getting them the hell out of Iraq, Syria, and Jordan.”

“Sir, you don't think taking out their leaders will eliminate their will to fight? Those troops are fighting because the ayatollah ordered them to fight.”

“I can't believe I'm sitting here discussing the assassination of a head of state,” the secretary of state fumes.

“We're not assassinating anyone, Allison. At least not yet, anyway. I want a plan and I want it in the next two hours.”